


Long Time Gone

by genagirl



Category: The Sentinel
Genre: Angst, M/M, Misunderstandings, Slash
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-09-09
Updated: 2013-09-09
Packaged: 2017-12-26 02:46:06
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,716
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/960655
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/genagirl/pseuds/genagirl
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Blair returns from an extended expedition to find things have changed.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Long Time Gone

Long Time Gone - gena 

A gentle hand on his shoulder, shaking him lightly, brought Blair Sandburg wide awake maybe for the first time in a long time. He looked up - straight into eyes so blue and startling he almost cried out in pain. Those damned eyes, even on the other side of the world he couldn't escape them. "Please return your seat to its full, upright position," the flight attendant ordered with a plastic smile. 

Blair nodded, still stunned. It had been so long since he'd looked into eyes the color of the sky. Where he'd been people had eyes shaded brown like the earth they worked. He'd been very careful not to look up, afraid the blue heavens above would remind him of what he'd left behind but now he was soaring across an azure sky and he could allow his mind the luxury of such thoughts. Eighteen long months it had been. Blair stared out the little window, at the expanse beyond, and remembered how he'd always thought of blue sky being freedom. He'd grown up with Naomi's favorite philosophy - if you love something set it free and only if it returns to you was it ever really yours. Jim's eyes were the very blue of this sky. Jim had set him free. And now he was returning. Still, in the back of his mind was the memory of seeing the sky blue gaze turn gray with pain as hope died within them. Somehow, when he'd convinced himself leaving was the answer, Blair had never considered that it would hurt Jim. He'd wanted only to search for the person called Blair Sandburg, but he'd not found him anywhere. It occurred to him too late, that he might only exist because Jim did. 

He landed in London and boarded a plane for Cascade, Washington. It had been an exciting year and a half but now he was going home. Jim's home - his home. What had Dorothy Gale said when she finally got back to Kansas "If I ever decide to seek my heart's desire again, I won't look any further than my own backyard, because if it isn't there....then I never really lost it to begin with." Blair closed his eyes, there's no place like home, and slept the rest of the journey, his dreams all of cyclones and yellow brick roads and finding his way over rainbows. It wasn't until he found himself standing in the artificial cavern of the airport white zone that doubt set in. Diesel fumes hung in the air, like ghosts drifting aimlessly. His stomach began to churn. Or maybe it wasn't the fumes. Blair watched a dozen buses load and leave, his nearly empty pockets dictated he too join the dispirited souls gazing out the windows but it was another hour before he could bring himself to climb the stairs and stuff his dollar into the slot. 

He placed his backpack on the overhead shelf, keeping a smaller, battered leather pouch in his lap. Inside, stacked like offerings to some forgotten god were the letters he had written to Jim. Each one scribble in the middle of a long, lonely night when he didn't think he could bear the darkness another second. Some were lined and creased as if an angry fist had clenched them tight, then sorrow smoothed them once more. A few carried watery scars, their ink running in ragged wounds but no matter their state each of these letters matched the one he had so carefully written another lifetime ago. Words, excavated from the pit his heart had become, had poured from his pen, painstaking in their perfection. He'd hammered them into shape until each rang with his soul's truth. So sure he'd been of their power he'd propped it on the windowsill of his room and gone on to the airport. There among the desperate ones, confidence had eroded with each stranger passing through the door, each gaze which slid over his without recognition. Like a condemned man awaiting a reprieve, Blair had sat, but there had been no last minute call from the governor, no second chance, only the echoing announcement of his flight. And so he had staggered to his feet and walked that last mile to his Fate without tears. 

++++++ 

Jim Ellison pressed his fingers hard against the bridge of his nose but even that couldn't stem the pain surging through his head. He shut his front door, leaning back and letting it hold him up as he glanced around his home, not really seeing it. Everything had a hazy quality, as if a veil of some kind had been drawn across his eyes. The thought brought with it a slight smile, pain forgotten for the moment - blind justice, how cliché. He sucked in a deep breath, letting it out slowly and hoping some of the ache in his head might go with it. All day he'd snapped and snarled at people, most of them had put it down to the "Ellison temper" never knowing Jim feared his head might explode at any moment. He hated days like this, when everything was too loud or too bright or smelled like a sewer. Hyperactive senses might seem like a miraculous gift to anyone who hadn't experienced them, but walk into a public restroom with them and that opinion would change - fast. The sudden whir of the refrigerator made him jump and with a shake of his head he trudged forward. All day he'd been plagued with a sense of dread, something was going to happen, some mystery would be revealed, some riddle solved, but as the day wore on waiting took its toll. Captain Banks had sent him home to work on his attitude and with a little luck Tylenol would work on the throb in his skull. 

Jim looked at his watch. 2:27PM, if he took the pills and laid down for a few hours he'd be fine by evening. Passing the French doors to his spare room, Jim stopped short, a shudder inching its way down his spine to take hold of his heart. "God damnit," he whispered, "no, god damnit!" Moving in a rush, body reacting where his mind couldn't, Ellison flung one of the doors open and began shoving at the mass of detritus piled nearest the door. His golf bag lay on its side spilling clubs like metal intestines. He fumbled the unyielding clubs, frantic now, as they clattered to the floor again and again. He snatched at them, shoving them into the mouth of the leather bag, panting, shaking as he growled, "No! Get this mess cleaned up!." Rage, black and slick as ink and bubbling up in an unending stream, filled him. It seeped through his heart and soul, bringing with it a shimmering darkness that seemed to hover on the edge of his vision. Jim welcomed that darkness, gathering it to himself until he felt nothing but numb and that strange apathy eventually smothered his rage and blotted out the pain behind it.. "I have to clean this up," he gasped, breathing in great ragged breaths, "I have to set it right!" And all that time Jim remained unaware of the tears streaming down his cheeks, as blind to them as to the dust covered books and curling papers left strewn about. 

"Oh, god," he sobbed when exhaustion had at last robbed him of his strength. It caught at him, making him slump heavily to the floor. His shoulder slammed against an old wooden desk, sliding it a foot or more, until it wedged against the bed. Jim half lay in the dirt, panting for breath, seeing nothing of the chaos around him. He let the numbness creep up over him, sending that part of him which had threatened to awake back to where it slept. A minute passed, then two before he could rise. He stood looking over the scene with indifference. "I'll clean this later," he vowed and left the room, firmly closing the door behind him. Jim never saw the grimy envelope revealed by the displaced desk nor did he see how the breeze from the closing door blew off layers of dust until a name shown through. His name. Written long ago - a lifetime ago. Ellison glanced absently at his watch - 3:05 and headed up to his bed to lie down for an hour or so. As he settled onto the mattress, he realized the sense of foreboding which had been with him all day - was gone and his headache was fading. 

+++++ 

Blair checked the time - 3 PM. Unless he was out running down a lead there was a good chance Jim would be at his desk slogging thought paperwork. He debated dashing through the parking garage to see if the truck was there but impulsively headed for the elevator instead. As he rode upwards towards Major Crime, Blair concentrated on slowing his heartbeat and getting his breathing under control. He didn't want his first meeting with Jim marred by any extra anxiety. It wasn't vanity which made him struggle for control, just the inbred knowledge that a sentinel often gauged a situation by his guide's reaction and Blair didn't want Jim thinking he was scared or anything. Even if he was terrified. He sucked in a deep breath when the car reached the seventh floor and stepped out. He let his gaze sweep the bullpen, noting disquieting little changes; desks where they hadn't been before, a new coat of institutional gray, and big changes; new faces he didn't know. 

"Can I help you?" Like an iceberg crossing the path of a small steamer, the hulking form brought Blair to a shuddering halt. He looked up into the cold, gray eyes of a grim faced man. 

"Oh, hey man," Blair grinned, "I was looking for Jim. Ellison," he added when the man merely stared at him. 

"You know Detective Ellison?" The man's tone implied that the chances of this were limited. 

"Yeah, I'm....." 

"Whitman!" A booming voice effectively silenced the whole room and when Blair glanced around his organic blockade it was to see Simon Banks exiting his office in what could only be described as warpath mode. The big police captain started across the room parting detectives as if he were Moses and they the Red Sea. Blair stepped out from where he'd been hidden by the man's bulk. Banks glared at him, eyes narrowing. His steps faltered, slowing then stopping completely and his face took on a twist of confusion. In a manner of seconds Simon's shock changed to stunned recognition, "Sandburg?" Blair nodded. Banks moved then, seemingly pulled by some invisible force to within a foot of where Blair waited. The big man reached out hesitantly, fingers brushing Blair's arm before settling in a firm hold on his shoulder. Only then, when his touch confirmed what his eyes had seen, did a smile spread across his face. "Sandburg! It really is you!" 

That moment of uncertainty, of Banks' no knowing who he was brought an ache to Blair's chest. He knew the cause, he'd seen it in the mirrored surface of a stream outside his hut in Borneo. He'd changed; not just the mahogany curls now hanging halfway down his back or the rich tan hours in the sun had given him, or even the added muscle months of physical work had left, this change went deeper and Blair knew it reflected in his eyes. Once, in a fit of sentimentality, brought on no doubt by his latest brush with death, Jim had told him that looking into Blair's eyes was like seeing the world unfold in an indigo dream. Not now. Blair had seen his reflection and the dead gaze staring back at him had been the main force behind his return to Cascade, that - and Jim. 

"It's me, Sir," Blair said and a moment later found himself lifted off his feet as Banks caught him in a bearhug. "Simon!" Other officers had gathered, many of them staring in open mouth stupefaction as their captain apparently physically assaulted a visitor. "You're breakin' ribs here, man," Blair gasped. 

"Blair! I can't believe it!" Simon set him on his feet, dark eyes gleaming as he looked him over from head to toe and back again. "We didn't know," Banks said, shaking his head in wonder. 

"Know what?" Blair asked but the arrival of Henri, Rafe and Megan set off another round of hugs and tears. All his old friends gathered round, their questions tumbling over each other while newcomers looked on, whispering to each other, asking who this guy was and why so many detectives considered him a friend. It wasn't until later, seated in Banks' office that Blair had a chance to find out just what had been happening in his absence. 

"Here." Simon shoved a cup of rich, flavored coffee into his hands. Blair smiled a faint, nostalgic smile, sipping it as he stared out over the city. Both the coffee and the sight were worth savoring and silence stretched from several long moments. He could feel Banks' gaze, and before he was sure he was ready, Blair turned and asked the question he both dreaded and hungered to have answered. "How's Jim doing?" 

For a moment there was no reply, but Banks said a lot with his silence. Emotion flickered across his normally composed features; sadness, hurt, anger, resignation. Blair steeled himself, he could almost hear the internal debate Banks was having. Simon had backed his decision to join the Borneo expedition and it wasn't until later than Blair had realized why. The relief in Banks' eyes when he had boarded that plane was a sight Blair couldn't wipe from his mind. "Depends, I guess," Simon growled. "You want to know about the wrist he broke last March when he zoned? Or the flu shot that put him in the hospital for two weeks?" Blair flinched, accepting the captain's anger as his due. "I'm sorry," Simon said, shaking his head, "I'm sorry. It's not your fault, Sandburg. I thought - I thought all this Sentinel crap would go away -" 

"- If I did," Blair finished quietly. Banks nodded. "Simon, I didn't make Jim a sentinel. I didn't create him." 

"That's sure as hell how it seemed at the time!" The big man clenched his fists, bringing one down on his desk so hard some of the small figurines he collected wobbled. "You always had a handle on it! You always knew what to do! What else could I think, Blair? You always seemed to be pulling the strings.." 

Blair closed his eyes, willing the hurt to fade from his voice. "Simon, how is he?" Banks shook his head as if words were no good to him and only slowly when he could think of nothing else to do did he begin to speak. He painted a black and gray picture, Jim slowly reverting to the angry defiant man he'd once been, of how he bullied and badgered people. 

Simon's voice had the timber of regret, of knowing he had played the wrong hand. "He's not the same," Banks said, "it's like he stepped back in time, he's that arrogant bastard I first met." 

"I asked him not....." Blair trailed off, shaking his head and changed the topic. "Why were you so surprised to see me?" He asked and only the warmth of the cup in his hands kept him from being crushed under the icy grip of fear. 

"It was strange when you left," Simon said in a musing tone. "That night after we got back from taking you to the airport Jim wanted to get drunk. I mean he set out to get shit-faced and that's something I never thought I'd see Jim Ellison do! Losing control is just - it's just not Jim but he acted so - beaten, like he really didn't care what happened." Banks frowned, not meeting Blair's gaze, but as if looking through his memory he couldn't quite fit the pieces together. "But the next day I asked something about you and he looked right through me like I was talking Japanese or something." Banks shook his head, still unable to make it fit. "It was really - weird." 

Blair rose slowly, not even aware of the spreading coffee stain on the carpet, not aware of anything save the roar inside his head. He could feel the blood draining from his face as darkness gathered at the edge of his vision. Suddenly Simon was in front of him and the big hands gripped so tightly around his upper arms were the only thing holding him on his feet. 

"Sandburg! Blair, what? My god, what?" But Blair could only stare at him in horror, the thought inside his head so terrible - so unthinkable his mind shut down rather than entertain it. "Blair!" Simon shook him, strong fingers pressing so hard that Blair's hands tingled. 

"I - I have to see him," he whispered and Simon nodded. 

"Let's go." 

+++++ 

"Hold your damn horses, okay?" 

Simon flinched as the door in front of him exploded inwards and Jim Ellison stood there, glaring. "Uh, Jim, you're home." Banks cringed, of course Ellison was home, he'd sent him there himself less than two hours ago. 

"Yes, Sir. I was asleep." Jim didn't move nor did the annoyance in his eyes give way, but as Simon watched, Ellison cocked his head to the side, nostrils flaring like a race horse. "Was there something you needed?" 

Banks took a deep breath, "yeah. There's someone here to see you." He gestured to Sandburg, urging the young man away from the wall where he huddled. As Blair stepped forward, Simon kept his gaze on Jim. It seemed that something shifted behind Ellison's eyes, some tiny fracture in the clear blueness of his gaze but it died in an instant and left absolutely no trace of recognition in its wake . 

"Jim?" 

Banks barely recognized Sandburg's voice - it sounded so very young and afraid. Deep lines appeared across Ellison's forehead, he seemed to be waiting expectantly and when Banks didn't say anything demanded, "who's your friend, Simon?" 

"Cut the crap, Jim," Simon growled, "you know....." 

"B-Blair Sandburg," Blair stammered. His already pale face had gone white but he went on, "we met some time ago." 

Banks looked between them. "What the hell is going on," he demanded but Blair placed an unsteady hand on his chest and the look in his eyes seemed to plead - "not yet" . 

Aloud Blair said, "Captain Banks thought I might be able to help you." 

Ellison's brows lifted and his mouth tightened into a line. "Help me with what?" 

"Your senses." 

Ellison blanched and stiffened, drawing back just a little. Simon used the moment to push passed his detective, practically dragging Sandburg behind him. Inside, he faltered, taken aback by the changes in the loft. It felt like stepping into a time faded photograph of the place he had know. Muted, drab and dreary, the apartment had an abandoned feel, as if someone had lived there but just walked away. Bare brick walls peeked out where vibrant paintings had once hung and empty spaces marked where furniture had been removed. Banks turned a slow circle, depressed to find the flashes of color Blair's collection of artifacts had lent the place gone, even the air seemed stale and lifeless, caught behind drawn blinds. A bookshelf blocked the window which had looked over the living room from Blair's small room and Ellison's bicycle sat carelessly propped across the doorway. It made Banks uncomfortable without knowing why, to him it seemed as if Jim had unconsciously eradicated Blair's very presence from his life. "Nice place," Blair said but the tremor in his voice told Banks the changes in his former home hit him hard. 

"Thanks." Ellison, clearly not in the mood to play host, plopped onto the couch and sat looking at them with a mixture of anger and dread. "What the hell do you know about my senses?" 

"I know they're hyperactive and sometimes you have problems," Blair said, moving closer to the couch. "There are times they go haywire and you can't control them." 

Banks stalked over and stood staring down at Jim. "You honestly don't know Sandburg?" 

"Know him?" Jim cast a disgusted look towards Blair, "how the hell would I know him?" 

"Simon, let me talk to him, okay? I can fix this." Banks searched his eyes, wondering if Blair felt more confident than he sounded. "There's a Motel 6 down a couple of blocks, get me a room for tonight and I'll call you later." He pressed against the bigger man's chest, urging him towards the door. 

"I don't like this, Sandburg. He - he's," Simon faltered, simply unable to believe that Jim did not know the man he had been closer to than a brother for almost three years. 

"Confused, yes," Blair said quietly, "I can handle this. It's okay." Banks shot another look at Jim, he sat on the couch watching them with indifference, as if they were actors in some mindless sit-com. It was then, in that moment, that he realized Jim, too, had taken on the washed-out and dreary tone of his loft. The spark which had once lit his eyes and given him an air of command had faded, leaving a man who looked tired and ill. It couldn't have happened all at once, Banks knew he would have noticed but gradually, like a man slowly dying on the inside, the Jim Ellison he remembered had disappeared. With a stern order for Sandburg to call him if anything went down other than conversation, he left. 

"Is this going to take long, Chief," Jim asked, "cause I was hopin' to watch the Jags tonight." 

"Oh, hey, I Love the Jags," Blair said with a smile. 

"That wasn't an invitation, Junior," Jim said not unkindly. 

"Oh, yeah, sorry," Blair murmured. 

"Look, I've got some beer in the fridge, we can drink a couple and you can give me what you know about being a sentinel." 

"You know - ," Blair gulped, "you know about being a sentinel?" 

Jim looked at him as if he were stupid, "yes. I - I think I read about them years ago. For a while there I thought I was going nuts, you know? No one believed me," even the memory of that time made Jim shiver. "If I hadn't," he paused, pressing a hand to his forehead, "if I hadn't - read that book......." His voice faded and Blair could see the confusion in Jim's eyes. He stepped closer, silently urging it on, needing something to break loose, some bit of the past to set it right once again but a second later Ellison shook his head, blinking as if just waking from sleep. "What? Oh, yeah, a beer." 

"I'll get it," Blair said. He retrieved two beers from the refrigerator, automatically reaching into the second drawer for an opener. 

"There's a....." He saw Jim's surprise and a vague idea began to form in his head. Blair carried the two bottles back to the living area, handing one to Jim and taking a seat beside the older man. Jim barely spared him a glance and that fact alone cheered Sandburg almost to the point of hopefulness. How many times had he observed Jim's sensitivity to other's nearness. Ellison didn't make it obvious, he gave off the impression of being very touchy-feely, but only with those individuals he truly trusted, otherwise he backed off, guarding his personal space like a dragon guards gold. Sandburg realized that if his own nearness hadn't set alarm bells ringing in Jim's mind, he had a chance. Blair settled back on the couch and watched Jim watch the game. He began to notice the changes in his partner; deeper lines etched around Jim's mouth and into his forehead, the weight he had lost since they'd last been together. It all acted together to lend Jim an air of sorrow and fragility he should never have and it touched something buried inside Blair. There was a beauty in Jim's sadness, as if the pain had pared away everything and left only the stark essence of this man. Blair gulped, his chest tightening with regret. 

Blair drew in a breath, forcing his mind back to the problem, and said, "these problems. Are they anything like you had after Danny Choi was killed or more like the time you used the cold medicine?" He waited, gaze fixed firmly on the other man's face. Jim turned slowly towards him, eyes huge and dark while his cheeks looked chalky white. 

"How do you know...... Simon told you, didn't he?" 

"What does Simon know about this, Jim? What about the time we spent in Peru, and you wanted to give up your senses? What did the other sentinel ask you? What do you fear? What about your spirit guide - the jaguar? Does Simon know about any of this? Does he? Who knows you, Jim? Who is the one person in this world that knows you?" He rose when Jim did, advancing on the older man as he demanded, "don't you know me, Jim? Don't you know me?" 

Ellison gave ground, backing away. "Who are you?" he asked in a ragged whisper. 

"Think, Jim. Remember me!" Blair urged. 

Jim, trapped against the wall, panting as if he'd run for miles, shook his head. "No. No, I don't know you. This is a sick joke. I don't know you, I can't. You don't know anything about me! No one knows about me. No one knows......" 

"Why? Why won't you let anyone know, Jim?" Blair moved in front of Jim, standing close enough to feel the moist caress of his breath. 

"Because - because," Jim floundered for the reason, eyes squeezed shut, and both hands pressing against his temples. "Because if you know and you leave - " Ellison sagged, and for a minute Blair feared he would go to his knees, but then Jim straightened, mouth twisted in anger. "Get out! Get out of here, Sandburg." He shoved Blair away, then grabbed his arm and propelled him across the floor. 

"Jim! Stop! You have to remember me." 

"You little punk," Jim snarled. He ripped open the door and threw Blair hard against the far wall. "Leave me alone. I don't know you!" The door quivered on its hinges from the force of the slam. Blair stayed leaning on the wall for a moment, trying to get his breathing under control. Never in the years he had known Jim, had he seen such rage. He waited, hoping to hear something - anything from the room but not a sound reached his ears. Finally, giving up, Blair turned and fled down the stairs and out into the darkness. 

*** 

Jim stood there, hands pressed against the door, bracing it against the outside world. Something inside his mind mirrored the stance, reinforcing the doors he'd thrown across his memory, doors designed to keep whatever it was waiting out there, the thing which had the power to destroy him utterly, locked out. He strained against it, sensing it not with hearing or smell or any of the other heighten senses he possessed, but with a sense honed by years of denying anything could exist beyond those five senses. He willed it to go and told himself it would slink away at his command. He stayed there, sentinel that he was, and only when his arms trembled so violently he could no longer keep them steady and his hands had gone numb to the point of uselessness, did he step away. And in that instant of inattention, it struck. A massive, booming blow crashed into his defenses, battering the door he'd fortified against it. It echoed inside his skull, sending him staggering backwards, eyes glued to his own front door. It struck again and he went sprawling, hitting the table to lay dazed on the floor. He expected to see the loft door heave under some mysterious force, bowing inward on its hinges but the echoing concussion didn't exist in the real world. "No," Jim hissed, "I can't! I can't!" He scrabbled backwards, the thing, that horrifying entity outside demanding he let it in driving him on hands and knees until Jim collided with his bike. For one instant, it teetered, then toppled, handlebars striking against the French doors. 

In that instant, as those doors swayed and gave way, the fragile shell he'd constructed so carefully shattered, flying apart as if built of nothing but glass. Bits of memories, fragments of the past, slivers of who and what he had lost, pierced his mind. Ellison flung his arms up, a futile shield against the pain that rolled over him in colors so bright they blinded, feelings so intense they left his skin flayed. It beat at him, splinters of memory sinking deep into his mind as if they were arrows burying themselves in flesh, letting the subconscious bleed and seep and stain his thoughts with gory recollection. Jim opened his mouth to shout in protest but the wave of memory spilled over him, tumbling him under its weight, dragging him down. The air around him shimmered, a veil dropping away to reveal the truth beneath. He stared at the small room into which he had tumbled, at the books lining the shelves, the pottery and pillows, the pictures and clothes. These were things he recognized, things which could not be crammed into a small suitcase and they had been here all the time, all the time when he had seen only a neglected storage room. He knew then, he knew and horror rose within him like a tide. 

Ellison crouched there, groping among the cracked and crumbling images of his memory, searching for something whole and undamaged, something he could cling to and climb out of the madness. He found it in a dirty scrap of paper, an envelope - blue as eyes he had once worshipped in secret, and saw his own name written across the front. With the last shreds of strength, Jim fumbled it open. He read the few lines there, felt them burn themselves into his brain and curled against the pain which overtook him. He could feel the world ripping apart at the seams, and just above the roar of his own cry, Jim could hear a voice. He knew it now, recognized it as the one he'd never been able to ignore, the one which had talked to him in dreams. It screamed at him, demanding he accept this, live in reality, but there were some thing too much for even Jim Ellison to bear. He clutched the letter to his chest, inhaling a long forgotten scent, and slipped into a blackness so deep he knew he would not find his way out again. 

*** 

"Something's happening," Blair murmured to himself. He paced another circuit of the small room, slamming his fist against the closet door as he passed. "Something's happening," he repeated. He could feel the jackhammer beat of his heart stall, skipping when the phone rang. He leapt across the bed, praying he would hear his named uttered by the one voice in the universe he needed to hear. "Jim??" 

"No, it's Simon," Banks said quickly. "Have you heard anything?" 

"No." Blair slumped to the mattress, one hand cradling his head. "He kicked me out. I - I pushed him too far, Simon. God, I've lost him!" 

"Sandburg! Get hold of yourself," Banks ordered. "You're not doing him any good like this." 

"Okay! Yeah, I know," Blair said. He took a deep breath, struggling to find that placid clam he knew existed within himself. It took a few seconds but eventually he gained control. "Look, Simon, I'm heading back over there. I know he needs me." 

"Be careful, kid," Banks warned. "A wounded animal is the most dangerous kind." Blair took the warning to heart, but every instinct he possessed screamed that Jim needed help. He grabbed his coat, and bolted from the room. It was a long walk so he ran, dodging street people and tourists until he stood gasping beneath the familiar awning of Colette's. 

"Hang on, Jim," he begged, "I'm coming." He raced up the stairs and before he even knew what he would say to the man, Blair stood before the door of apartment 307. He hesitated, then produced the key he had carried like an amulet and unlocked the door. At first he saw nothing amiss. The only light came from a small lamp in the living room but this wasn't unusual, Jim rarely turned on very many lights when alone. "Jim? Jim, are you okay?" He moved further inside, shutting the door behind him. One of the dining room chairs lay on its side and beyond it Jim's bicycle looked like a crippled animal. "Jim?" 

Blair moved on, drawn to his old room, to the place Jim had made for him so many years ago. The doors stood open but he could hear no sound, make out no shape in the dim room. "Jim?" He paused, hand barely an inch from the light switch, dreading but compelled to see what remained of his past. Blair flicked the light on, and in that second of adjustment, he thought it was exactly as he'd left it and only when he really looked did he see the dust, the decay, the huddled form abandoned in the midst of it all. "Jim!" He threw himself on his knees, reaching for Jim, raising him up into his arms and sobbing his partner's name. 

Blair cradled the larger man to his chest, his tears falling on Jim's cheek. "What have I done? What have I done?" A sound, not quite his name but still something which called to him, made him look down. Two cloudy blue eyes stared back at him, "Jim?" There was no answer and so he called more urgently, "Jim? Please, talk to me. Do you know who I am? Jim, please," his voice broke, the words splintered with grief as those eyes continued to stare without recognition. Blair covered his face with his free hand and wept. His sorrow felt so heavy, so unbearable that he would have gladly died to be free of it. He had nothing, everything he had loved was gone and he was alone in a cold and barren land. He could feel darkness closing in on him, his soul nothing more than an icy sheet locked inside a withered husk of his body. He felt as if this black pit was all the world would eve be, the sun had not merely set but been extinguished for all time. Blair shivered, caught in the clutches of what he had lost, willing to accept this as his punishment but then, in the midst of so much cold - warmth. It touched his chin in a clumsy caress, fingers tugging weakly at his wrist. Blair let his hand be drawn away, his eyes uncovered. 

The overwhelming sense of being lost washed over him, magnified by the sorrowful gaze Jim wore. "It wasn't your fault," Ellison said, "I did it." Blair shook his head, not understanding. A wave of vertigo passed over him. Sandburg closed his eyes, waiting for it to faded and a moment later, when he looked again, a strange transformation had occurred. It was almost as if the loft had lost its substance. It existed, he could still see the couches, the chair, the fucking bicycle Jim had knocked over, but he could also see tall stalks of foliage, towering tree trunks where the branches were lost against the top of the ceiling. Far away an animal howled and Blair jumped in surprise. 

"You? Jim, I don't understand." A feeling of - acceptance filled Blair. He had never shared Jim's visions but Ellison had described them in detail. He knew this clearing was one of the places Jim encountered his spirit guide. If he followed the sooty line leading into denser brush Blair knew he'd find the Temple of the Sentinels. It was somewhat disconcerting, this new reality, with its mixture of worlds but instinctively he knew this was much the way Jim saw things, a limbo where he could choose reality as it suited him. They crouched on hard packed dirt but now, amid the exotic scent of flowers and rain and furniture polish and as he gazed down into the familiar features there began a change there as well. Jim looked more rugged, more like he had when they'd first met; buzz cut, steely eyes and grim expression. Jungle fatigues, a bandanna to protect his head, and the faint lines of war paint gave Ellison a savage, dangerous air much as Blair remembered him from that first day. 

"To protect him," this warrior version of Jim responded. "It's how he can survive." Once again as Blair stared at the image of his best friend it blurred, shifting subtly. Jim's face grew younger, became that of a boy, a sturdy child with intelligent eyes and a shy smile. "He has no one, you know that, don't you?" Blair recognized the cadence of his friend's speech but it lacked the commanding timbre he'd grown use to. "He's never had anyone." And a pain so sharp he thought it would split his chest open, hit Blair. He gasped in the heavy air, unable to make a single sound. The child reached out again, wiping one finger down Blair's cheek. "It's okay," he said and a moment later, Blair faced the sentinel of Burton's photograph from a hundred years before. "It is how we keep him safe." The shifting began again, and this time when it came, Blair thought he would be ready for it, but the sight of his own face, the understanding nod his shadow gave, unnerved him beyond reason. His heart gave a desperate leap, a cry bubbled to his lips but before it could escape, the scene melted away and Blair found himself back in the loft, Jim curled in his arms. 

"C-Chief?" The familiar nickname, spoken with such concern, scared away the last of the ghosts and he found a smile from somewhere deep inside. 

"Hey. You okay?" Jim hesitated then nodded but seemed unwilling to move from where he lay. "You know who I am?" Blair asked. 

"The guy who owes me two years rent," Jim said softly, smiling when Blair gave a snort of laughter. For a minute they just held each other, soaking in the warmth of friendship. Blair stroked Jim's face with idle fingers, marveling at how natural it seemed to do something that intimate. Touch had always been Jim's thing, using Blair as his anchor to what other people saw and felt. But this, this felt so much different, like they were reweaving the bond between them one thread at a time. Shadows shifted across the floor, the air grew cool and finally the raw edges of their separation seemed to ease and as it did a frantic need to know pushed him to speak. 

"Why, Jim? Why did you make yourself forget me?" 

"I - was - afraid," Jim whispered in a hoarse and raw voice. "You left me, too. You knew me, you were my friend and you couldn't stay." He pulled himself from Blair's embrace, sitting with slumped shoulders. "I screwed up again." He looked up, floundering for an explanation, "if you had given me a chance, Chief, I could have made it right." 

Blair frowned, "Made what right, Jim? I'm not following you." 

"I could have fixed whatever went wrong. I know I'm not - good at being a friend," he said softly, "but before you always let me slide - I thought it was because of the sentinel thing, you know? I figured I could be nasty because you had to stay if you wanted your dissertation." Ellison looked away as if realizing how his words must sound but he went on talking. "Then I thought maybe you were staying because you felt sorry for the freak you were studying. That really pissed me off, so I tried to be as cruel as I could just to see what you'd take." Jim's cheeks colored. "You stayed, Blair. I tried to push you away and you stayed." He stopped talking for a moment, eyes closed as he shook his head. "All those times I wished you would just leave me alone, you wouldn't back down. I - I began to think you might stick around for a long time." Blair swallowed and the ache in his throat brought a wash of tears to his eyes as Jim went on. "I liked it, Chief. I liked having someone here with me, someone who knew what it was like for me, someone who knew my secret and I didn't have to pretend I was normal with. I tried to tell you that but I couldn't." Jim turned back to Blair and the look on his face held such pleading, such anguish it hurt to see it. "We had such good times together, Chief. Just you and me. I thought you liked it here. I didn't want it to change! Then you wanted to leave and I couldn't stand it. I just wanted it to be like it was, like before when I didn't care about anyone. Why couldn't you stay, Blair?" he asked in a broken whisper. "What did I do wrong?" 

"Jim, Jim," Blair said, "you didn't do anything wrong. If you wanted me to stay all you had to do was ask me not to go." 

But Jim was shaking his head. "How could words, the kind of words I know, make you stay if what we shared couldn't? What could I say?" Blair felt his face drain of blood and little dark spots danced at the corner of his vision. All those times Jim had done some kindness - a cup of tea during a late night study session, a ride when his car broke down, the comforting hugs and gentle hands which never seemed to tire of touching him. Those had been Jim's words. He had never really heard - until now. 

"Is that why you - made me go away from your memories?" 

Ellison gave a laugh that made Blair shiver. "Not a conscious effort, Chief. You know, being half crazy has its advantages. Anything too painful just evaporates from my brain." He turned to look at Blair then and the surfaces of his eyes were dark, "sometimes I knew I'd blocked out a memory. It was like a big sink-hole in the middle of my brain. I couldn't get close enough to peer over the edge without it crumbling beneath my feet. I - I knew someone had helped my with my senses, someone had - guided me but not who." 

"You left all my stuff in my room, Jim," Blair pointed out. "Didn't you ever wonder about that? About the stuff you knew wasn't yours?" 

Jim shrugged again, "no. I used it for storage, just like the first time, before you moved in. I didn't go in there. Anytime I opened the door a kind of irrational anger would sweep over me for no reason I could detect. It was like remembering a nightmare had scared you but not knowing what the details were." He looked at Blair, "does any of this make sense to you?" 

"Yeah, it does." He stroked Jim's hair. "It makes sense." He reached over and took the crumpled letter from his partner's hand. "I wrote to you every single night, sometimes twice a night but I never sent them." Jim covered his hand and Blair took strength from it. "I waited at the airport, I just knew you would come get me, make me come home." 

"I didn't know," Jim said. "If I had - if I had - " He did not go on, but bent his head, brushing his lips across Blair's forehead in chaste affection. "What could I offer you? I have no right to ask more, Chief. You've given me everything." 

"I want this," Blair said and returned the kiss, then deepened it, tightening his arms against the tremors running through Jim's body. The unaccustomed feeling of protecting Ellison made his throat ache. "I want you," Blair whispered when they drew apart. He rolled them over, blanketing Jim as he kissed a path from forehead to chin. Pressing closer until he could feel Jim's heart beating under his lips. He drew Ellison's shirt up, exposing acres of skin and proceeded to lick each square inch. Jim moaned, panting as his body flared with heat and his hands roamed over Blair's back, kneading his ass until both were gasping. "Naked," Blair growled, "naked, now." It took so long, hands made awkward by desire, fumbled buttons and zippers, and neither could stand the thought of parting long enough to make it easy. Somehow they shed their clothes, naked flesh on naked flesh sizzled within the close confines of the room. He straddled Jim, their cocks sliding together, friction adding to the heat which had built between them. All those nights in the jungle came back, the nights he had cried Jim's name as his own seed spilled over his hand. 

"Chief," Jim slurred, head thrown back. He brought his legs up, feet flat on the mattress, his thighs tight against Blair's hips. They bucked wildly, hands clutching hard enough to leave bruises, mouths working their way across sweaty skin. Blair rode the writhing man beneath him, wanting it to go on for the rest of his life, wanting to make up for those endless nights on his own. He opened his eyes, staring into Jim's, needing to connect. Ellison's eyes seemed to blaze with an unearthly light which made the tears streaming down his cheeks shimmer. "Blair? Blair, it's really you, isn't it?" 

"Yes," Blair said softly. The hunger, so strong before he'd wanted only to possess Jim, eased to something much different. He kissed the upturned lips, caressing Jim's chest as their groins shifted slowly against each other. "It's really me." Completion, body and soul, filled him and the blaze in Ellison's eyes could only be described as one of recognition. 

The end.


End file.
